If you made it to the end of the Logies without punching a hole in your TV in an attempt to find a living room escape pod, you’ll know that building shows are all the rage right now, with Scott Cam picking up two awards for presenting The Block. “And he’s just a carpenter!” some snorted. Yes, but his success isn’t that surprising. Remember, after all, that other carpenter who rose to divine status? That’s right, Craig Phillips from the UK’s Big Brother 1.

And just like Big Brother’s Craig, who was nailed to a cross, left for dead and then ascended to the heavens (or that might have been Jesus – whoever it was, given the nature of their death, they’re a terrible carpenter), the building show format is risen once again, this time on Channel 7’s House Rules.

Judging from the first few episodes, House Rules differs largely from The Block in that your reluctant thumb has to press a different button on the remote before the show will inhabit your tortured television. After that token divergence, however, you’ll be in familiar territory as teams gut rooms and refashion them, all the while frantically yelping about chests of drawers and cornice. It's like watching an Ikea catalogue have a panic attack.

Occasionally we are treated to in-car footage of someone driving, making you wonder if you’ve accidentally hopped channels and are now watching a series of Russian dashboard-cam bloopers where some idiot turned the camera the wrong way.

Should DIY interspersed with stressed-out breakdowns and POV footage from the perspective of someone clinging to a windscreen happen to be your thing, then the remaining 477 episodes ought to sustain you until Cam’s return.

Now is the moment when I open a paragraph to the general public and invite you to answer how on earth you're supposed to segue from House Rules to the superlative Fargo (SBS1). It's about as jarring a transition as being at a funeral and suggesting we all go out shopping for bouncy castles. Anyway, your segue here.

First, don't worry about needing to have seen the original film. The series effortlessly eases you into its wintry universe with its smalltown desaturation, ominous score and superb performances. Martin Freeman is, as always, but particularly here, excellent. I expected some of his trademark physical mannerisms might be too reminiscent of his other downtrodden, "loser" incarnations, but after a few seconds I couldn't recall anything he's ever done. His patheticness is utterly gripping, as is Billy Bob Thornton's charming psychopath.

If you're avoiding it because you're not a fan of crime dramas, then the first two episodes ought not to put you off. The joy here isn't in trying to guess whodunnit: we know exactly who's done what. Rather, it's the well-crafted interactions between the ensemble of rich characters that elevates this chilly, and chilling, glimpse into a snowy American disturbia.

The squeamish might find themselves looking away rather often. There are plenty of throat-gurgling and gushing wounds here, often with a lingering that lets the moment really sink in, made all the more intimate and unsettling by the drab, claustrophobic environment. It certainly leaves an impression, more than any Red Wedding ever could.

The week's best new religion:The Voice is back with all the trademark iconography of a terrifying cult: those weird statues of hands everywhere, blood-red papal thrones from whence judgement is passed, not to mention the bizarre dance that goes on before someone's allowed to touch The Red Button. It'll be Australia's Got Scientology next.